


Obsession

by danpuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don't @ Me, JUST, M/M, Otp for life, That's it, and I'm madly obsessively in love with them, each chapter is exactly 500 words, frick yeah, just 2 dudes madly obsessively in love, obsessed, okay?, they are soulmates okay, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29587179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danpuff/pseuds/danpuff
Summary: Harry and Severus can't get enough of each other.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 32
Kudos: 153





	1. Severus

It might not be the healthiest thing, to be so enamored of Severus’ obsessive nature.

The plate of dinner Harry leaves at his elbow goes cold, lost as he is in his research. There is barely room for it on the desk, book after book open and spread out, margins filling quickly with the notes Severus scrawls there. When one book knocks into the plate, his reflexes are quick enough to catch it. His eyes don’t even leave the page.

He grumbles something unkind about Harry, who only snickers from across the room.

Severus is too skinny and too pale. Too little food and too little sleep when he’s like this. His silver streaked hair hangs like a limp, greasy curtain around his face, obscuring all but his prominent nose. Harry tilts his head for a better look at that nose. At the hair falling like ink across the pages.

If he showers, it isn’t thoroughly. There is no time to waste on essentials. Not when there is work to be done. Knowledge to be gained.

Harry hates this about him sometimes.

Other times…

Well, there’s just so much to him, isn’t there? His mind works nonstop as it is, but when he has a project to throw his heart and soul into…he is fully alive. Maybe no one else cares for his hooked nose or his greasy hair, his thin lips or his sharp features, but Harry — well, Harry wants to lick him from head to toe. Wants to swallow him whole. Wants to crawl inside and live in him forever. Explore the inner workings of that brilliant mind. The complex stirrings of his guarded heart.

Harry is, perhaps, a little obsessed himself.

“Are you going to stare at me all night, Potter?” Severus growls. He doesn’t even _look up._

Harry feels both fondness and annoyance at this, and cheekily replies, “Might as well. I’ve nothing better to do.”

Severus turns to him then. Harry swallows. Levity falls away beneath the weight of Severus’ regard. Those eyes that catch every flaw, every minute detail; that mind that crafts spells and potions; the drive and dedication that won a bloody _war;_ that fervor that can both kill and create — every bit of it is pointing towards Harry.

He is unbearably aroused.

The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as Severus shoves it back. Harry sits straighter on the sofa to watch helplessly as Severus crosses the room to him. Three long, graceful strides. The firm click of his boots agains the floor. The gentle swish of his robes. The dark, hot _something_ in his eyes.

Hands that wield wands and knives and rods so expertly, so efficiently, caress his face. Fingers tighten in his hair and tug back commandingly.

The best thing, Harry thinks, as Severus’ lips claim his, is that above all else — above knowledge and power and prestige and success — Severus is obsessed with Harry most of all.

And Harry really, _really_ shouldn’t like it so much.


	2. Harry

From the kitchen window, Severus observes Harry as he flies through the air.

Little attention is paid to the ongoing game. He doesn’t know whose team is in the lead. Barely knows who is participating, though their little match takes place in his backyard. Severus cares little for sports. What Severus does care for is his husband and watching him soar through the skies. Harry was born to fly. It is a shame the universe did not see fit to grant him wings.

The game ends with a spectacular show of broomstick acrobatics. It is a move Harry spent hours practicing the day before. Severus often mocks him for his athletic obsessions, if only to mask his enjoyment. He is absurdly proud when Harry grabs the snitch mid-roll.

His Harry whoops and throws himself back to dangle upside down from his broom. His arms are thrown up over his head and he laughs exuberantly. Severus hides a smile behind his teacup. Harry lands with a flourish to the cheers and jeers of his friends.

They will admire the display with little appreciation for the work it took to achieve. How dogged Harry is in all things he pursues. Severus could strangle him for his incessant curiosity and his boundless determination. Could fall to his knees in worship of his passion. His generous heart. His impeccable intuition. 

Severus could well write odes to Harry’s intelligent body — the body that moves without thought, learns without being taught. A natural in the physical world. Sexually, yes. Harry took to _that_ quite quickly. But Severus’ appreciation is purer and more powerful than the pleasure he takes. It is art, the way Harry moves. Knowledge on a plane Severus had never considered worthy before Harry.

Such energy he possesses, too. Fueled by love and joy and gratitude. Harry is as bright and warm as the hearth fire. And that fire fills every cold, empty crevice. Chases away every shadow.

Severus hasn’t the faintest idea why Harry has chosen to feed all of that warmth and light to him. Why all of that fierce devotion is aimed his way. Why that gentle heart was placed in his unworthy hands.

It doesn’t matter to Severus, the _why_ of it. He has possessed too little goodness to waste time on useless questions. Not when that time could be spent clinging to it. Ensuring that it never leaves.

Harry jogs towards the house and waves off the friends who call him back. Severus steps away from the window to calmly refill his cup as the backdoor bangs open.

Harry is sweaty and dirty. His Tornadoes shirt is faded and holey. Ripped jeans. Scuffed trainers. Green eyes bright with glee behind his smudged spectacles. A knowing smile on chapped lips. Voice fond and amused as he says, “Spying, Severus?”

There is no choice but to reach out. Draw that fire nearer. Touch and taste its sweet heat. Drink in the passion and obsession that belongs to him and him alone.


End file.
